


Points to Prove My Point

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:19:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Stump is kind of like 'six degrees of Kevin Bacon'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Points to Prove My Point

**Author's Note:**

> William and Patrick are roughly 16 in the fic.

  
Patrick is kind of like the ‘six degrees of Kevin Bacon’ game. He and William know of each other, and know people who know each other, and now people who know people who know them and each other, so when they finally meet, it’s really sort of anti-climactic. It’s at a show, because everything worth happening happens at a show, and the lights are flashing like Devon is having a seizure behind the board, and the guitars are screaming louder than any of the guys on the stage, and William feels it all in his blood, which is why it takes him a few minutes to realize someone’s shouting in his ear.

“…ck Stump.”

William remembers a ridiculous amount of things, all catalogued in his mind like puzzle pieces he has to put together. Drums. Piano. Friend of Tony and Kevin who is a friend of Carden and Andy. He looks over, expecting another scene kid in too-small clothes, making a statement or in a black t-shirt and cheap leather jacket, but instead it’s a short, slightly pudgy guy in a white t-shirt, jeans and a logger’s hat. “Him?”

Whoever had pointed Stump out was long gone, lost in the crowd. William shoves his way over toward the bar and nods to Angela who flips him off, but still fills a plastic cup from the tap and brings it to him. He drinks half of it, not caring about the taste so much as the wet, cold and buzz. He weaves through the wall crowd, nodding to people he knows until he’s right next to Stump. He drains the last of the beer in his cup and leans over, lifting up the red and black plaid earflap. “You want to get out of here?”

Patrick brushes William’s hand away. “Not interested. You’re not my type.”

William laughs. “I’m William Beckett.”

Patrick actually turns his head and looks at him. William _knows_ what Patrick sees – a typical scene kid in too-tight clothes trying to make a statement, pretending to be someone he’s not. “Where do you want to go?”

“Somewhere quiet?”

Patrick nods and leads the way. “You’re still not my type.”

It starts as simply as that.

**

William gets home at five in the morning, sneaking past his Dad, asleep or passed out on the couch, and raising a finger to his lips as he sees Courtney blinking sleepily at him from her bed. He strips down to his briefs and climbs beneath his covers, too keyed up to sleep. They’d talked for hours about everything. Patrick had lectured him on hip hop and soul and the superiority of every Prince record, while William had argued folk singers and how Patrick was completely in-fucking-sane if he thought the Monkees weren’t actually a quantifiable talent.

They’d had milkshakes at Denny’s and fought about the relevance of John Hughes’s films, though they both agreed they’d do both girls in ‘Some Kind of Wonderful’. And then halfway through the fourth plate of cheese fries, Patrick said ‘yes’, and William had a drummer.

Patrick had fallen asleep on the El, so William had helped him home, surprised a little by the relative affluence of his neighborhood. Knowing that a huge chunk of scene kids were all silver-spoon, trust fund babies doesn’t mean _knowing_ it, but he remembers sometimes when even modest is better than what he’s ever likely to have. He falls asleep eventually, sometime after the sun rises. He reminds himself to write that down, but he never does remember.

**

The first time they try to write a song together, Patrick ends up with a bloody nose, William ends up with a black eye and Nick nearly pisses himself laughing. Neither of them talks to Nick for a week, but he still cracks up every time they see him. After that they try not talking, passing a notebook back and forth, but after Patrick underlines something three times in green pen and William writes a snotty note about Patrick specializing in music since he hasn’t seemed to grasp even the most rudimentary of grammar, the page gets torn out, the notebook gets thrown across the room and William gets grounded for making his sister cry. It’s probably vindictive to goad his mom into calling Patrick’s mom, but that doesn’t stop him from doing it.

They settle on something less collaborative after that, passing things to each other nearly finished rather than nascent, and it seems to help sometimes. Nick also instituted a rule that they had to count to ten before considering physical violence because he needs to be prepared with his video camera for the funny shit.

The songs and music work better than the band, which really doesn’t work at all. “We’re not a band,” Patrick reminds him at every practice. “We’re a singer, a drummer and a revolving door.” People last a week, maybe two, but nothing ever gels.

William had planned on spring break being a great time to practice, but Jason, their current bass player, went to Connecticut with his parents, and Todd, the worst guitarist in the history of the world, thankfully broke his arm skateboarding and had to give up the hope of being in a band. “We are, officially, the worst band ever.”

“We’re not a band-”

“I _know_ ,” he cuts Patrick off. “Don’t fucking remind me.”

“You and I can still jam.”

“You and I need the least amount of practice.” William slumps onto the decrepit futon he and Patrick had rescued from the sidewalk in front of the house down the block. “I should give this up. Work at The Gap or be an English teacher.”

“Wow. Those are random choices.”

William sticks his tongue out at him. “You know, I’m not asking for it to be easy. I want to work for it. I’d just like it not to be quite so _hard_.”

Patrick lays his sticks across his kit and comes over to the futon, sitting tentatively beside William, patting his knee awkwardly. “I’m pretty sure there’s a dirty joke in there somewhere.”

“Pete Wentz and Joe Trohman are looking for a drummer.” William scratches at the knee of his jeans, not looking at him. “You’d be good. With them.”

“You’re kicking me out of our band?”

William smiles, almost a smirk, but it hits a little too close to home to make fun. “We’re not a band, remember?”

Patrick reaches over and settles his hand on William’s, stilling the nervous movements. “Hey.” He keeps it there, looking at his fingers on top of William’s. They stay like that for a long time, not moving.

“Maybe I’ll just be a solo artist.”

“But then who would you fight with and insult?”

“Good point.” William sighs. “Maybe I can hire someone. What’s the number to ‘Humiliations R Us’?”

Patrick laughs and moves his hand, fingers sliding up to William’s wrists and then back down. It’s ridiculous that a shock goes through him – he and Patrick touch plenty – but it does, jolting something inside him.

“William?” Patrick’s voice is a little shaky, and William wants to look at him, except he’s kind of transfixed, staring at Patrick as he turns William’s warm, his fingers pressing to the heavy racing of William’s pulse beneath his pale skin.

“Oh,” is all he manages before the door between the house and the garage opens.

“Patrick? Is William staying the night or just for dinner?”

Patrick answers before William has even grasped the question. “He’s spending the night.”

“I am? I mean, yes. Ma’am. I am. If that’s all right.” William knows he probably sounds ridiculous, but Patrick still has his wrist in his hand and he can’t really think beyond that.

“You’re always welcome, you know that. Dinner in a half hour.” William’s nodding, even though the door is shut and she’s gone, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“You want to, right? Stay?” Patrick’s thumb is centered over William’s pulse, pressing down and the vague thought that he’ll have a bruise the shape of Patrick’s thumb stops his breath. “William?” It’s soft and tentative and when he manages to raise his eyes, he finds Patrick staring at him.

“Yeah. Yeah. I want.” He wants to die, heat flooding his skin at the rough sound of his own voice, nearly unrecognizable.

“Good.” Patrick is whispering and William can’t help the shudder that goes through him.

“What…?”

Patrick shakes his head and then they’re kissing, even though William’s certain neither of them moved. Patrick’s lips are dry, chapped and rough against William’s. It’s tentative and shy, a moment of pressure and then gone, wide-eyed stares and shaky breaths filling the space between them.

“I’ve never-” Patrick starts and then stops, licking his lips.

William scrapes his teeth across his bottom lip and nods. “Me either.”

“A guy, I mean.”

“Oh.” William blushes again and swallows. “Me either. Me…either for me. Either. Too. Um. I’ve never…” He looks at his hands and hates the awkwardness of his body, of silences.

Patrick reaches out. William can see the movement even though he’s trying hard not to look at him, his fingers against William’s jaw. He lifts it, and William wants to laugh, because this is like one of the cheesy romances his mom reads or like the movies all the girls want to see, except it’s not, because it’s Patrick and his fingernails are bitten and dirty and his fingers and the pads of his palms are rough and callused from drumsticks and guitar strings.

“Can I do it again?”

A million reasons to say no flood his mind, but he nods, licking at his own dry lips before leaning in, catching his breath as Patrick’s thumb strokes his jaw, his fingers rubbing at the side of William’s throat, as he kisses him again. It’s just as soft, but it’s different, intent this time. On purpose.

Patrick’s lips part first, opening with warm breath and the press of tongue. William gasps softly, his own tongue slipping out, the tip feathering against Patrick’s. Patrick makes a sound that William thinks belongs in a Marvin Gaye record or maybe even Prince, because it does something to William’s stomach and everything else inside him, turning it all to liquid, melting everything except his cock. Patrick’s hand moves to the back of William’s neck, thumb rubbing the hollow beneath his ear. It’s William’s turn to make a sound, his mouth opening more under Patrick’s, whole body shivering at the slide of his tongue.

“God,” Patrick breathes, pressing closer and William shivers, breath faltering. “God, William.”

“O-oh.” He nods and kisses him again, reaching out and sliding his hand up Patrick’s thigh, fingers flexing against the denim. Patrick murmurs his name again, whispering it into William’s mouth like a secret they’re sharing until in the distance, Patrick’s mom calls them both to dinner.

**

There’s roast beef and potatoes and carrots and strawberry shortcake with whipped cream and video games and pretending they aren’t watching the clock, counting minutes and seconds and heartbeats. William loses horribly at Quake III, not even actually on purpose, and Patrick snaps the game console off.

“We’re going to go up to my room and watch _The Matrix_.”

“I’m going to go to bed,” his mom counters, getting off the sofa and kissing William on the top of the head before snagging off Patrick’s hat and doing the same to him. “Keep the noise down and don’t stay up too late.”

“Mom!” Patrick blushes and grabs for his hand, tugging it out of her hand and pulling it back down on his head. “Cut it out.”

“It’s my job to embarrass you.” She smiles at William and then disappears down the hall. Patrick waits until the bedroom door clicks shut then scrambles to his feet.

“C’mon.”

Patrick’s room is the second door on the left at the top of the stairs, and it’s not all that different from William’s room, though the volume of stuff varies. William has more books and Patrick has more music, something new always on his turntable. William is a little surprised when Patrick actually puts the movie in until he adjusts the volume a little bit louder then reaches out to tug William over to the bed. They sit in silence on the edge of the mattress, Keanu Reeves on the screen against the wall. Patrick’s room has never seemed so small.

“I want to do it again. Do you?”

There’s no real question of what ‘it’ is, and no real question about his answer. William nods and leans in, turning on the bed so they’re almost facing, closing his eyes when all he can see is the sandy brown of Patrick’s eyelashes. It’s tentative again, but it changes in the need and want and solitude. Hands reach out so fingers can touch and explore, tongues discover and noises are invented until they’re on their sides, stretched out perpendicular to Patrick’s mattress, fingers pushing beneath soft cotton t-shirts and sliding over skin and bone, contour and curve.

They stop kissing to breathe, both of them gasping raggedly. Nothing fills William’s lungs and there’s not enough air, so he presses closer to breathe Patrick in. Patrick’s neck is damp, and William licks at the perspiration, sucking at skin and sweat as Patrick gasps roughly, pushing William back on the mattress and following him down.

William’s inexperienced, not stupid, and instinct is screaming in his head as he spreads his legs so Patrick can settle between them. William’s hands fist in the bedspread beneath him, hanging on desperately as Patrick presses against him, his hips rolling down so that the hard bulge of his cock slides along William’s.

“H-h-holy…fuck,” William’s not sure if it’s a prayer or something more, but he knows this is everything as his feet dig in and he counters Patrick’s thrusts with his own, both of them not even feigning control as they dissolve into a blur of motion, primal and desperate and ending in swallowed, shaky cries against the back drop of slow motion gunfire.

**

On Friday, William’s sitting on the front steps of Patrick’s house when Patrick’s mom gets home. Practice officially started four and a half hours ago, but William’s been sitting there for almost six. He hasn’t touched his notebook and the used guitar he bought on Wednesday is closed up in the case at his feet.

“William.” Patrick’s mom smiles at him then frowns. “Patrick’s not home?”

“No, ma’am.” He knows where Patrick is, but he can’t quite admit it to himself. He knows because there’s only one place Patrick could be.

“Don’t you guys have practice today?”

He doesn’t quite nod, but he can’t exactly lie to her either. “I just came by to pick up my other notebook.” It’s not a lie really. Eventually maybe it will even be the truth he remembers.

“Well, come on in. I can’t imagine where he is.”

“It’s okay.” He starts for the stairs, for Patrick’s room. “I know where I’m going.”

**

It’s a Knights of Columbus hall in Barrington, and there’s a line down the front sidewalk. Scene kids out of place in the twilight, and the more hardcore Arma fans are getting vocal. Everyone’s buzzing about secrecy and how this has got to be the first step in an elaborate screening process that’s going to end in one serious fucking party. William ignores everyone, especially the guy next to him, because everyone knows it’s always better to ignore Mike Carden.

The sun finally sets completely and the streetlights click on. The wind picks up, so William huddles deeper into his sweatshirt, arms wrapped around his waist. He starts when Nick taps him on the shoulder, but follows him back to the rear of the building. Carden’s tagging along, but William just keeps ignoring him. When Nick opens the back door, all William can smell is heat and sweat; all he can hear is the low hum of amps and the distant hint of something on the verge of out of control.

“Come on,” Nick urges them both inside. “Get a good spot before we open the doors.”

Carden shoves William into the room, past the makeshift stage on low metal risers. William gets out of Carden’s way and hugs the wall. After a minute of pacing the room, Mike comes back and joins him.

“You know something I don’t know?”

“Probably a lot of things,” William informs him, but anything else is lost in the surge of the incoming crowd, voices raised in question and confusion. The lights go out as the room reaches capacity and beyond, and the closest thing to silence pervades the room. Suddenly there’s a flash of light and the room explodes with sound, guitar and bass and drums and then William follows the light to the black and red plaid logger’s cap and spends the night not hearing a single word.

The cops bust things up eventually, urging kids to go home, clearing the hall until nothing’s left but the stage and debris. William starts picking up cups, dragging the wheeled trashcan along behind him.

“You don’t have to do that, dude.”

Pete Wentz is standing in front of him; something about his awkward stance making it clear he knows exactly who William is. Before this, that might have meant something. Now it’s kind of a hollow achievement. “I can help clean up.”

“It was a tough decision for him to make.”

William shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t.”

“Okay.” Pete shrugs and doesn’t look away. If nothing else, William has to give him credit for not shying away from the moment. “Maybe not joining our band. But leaving yours.”

“We weren’t a band.” William smiles at Pete as he says it, and for the first time, he knows it really is true. “You guys are.”

“Yeah.” Pete grins, wide and bright and too big, and William gets that this is what Patrick needs. Someone bigger than life who won’t care about green ink, who will probably buy him all the green pens he could want. “We were awesome.”

“Not really.” William grins back at him, unable to help himself as Pete’s face falls. He looks past Pete to the stage where Patrick and Nick and Carden are talking, all but Mike very deliberately not looking their way. “But you have Patrick. So you’re getting there.”

**

It’s their first real gig, and he can hear the crowd just beyond the edges of the stage. He runs through lyrics in his head, singing beneath his breath, frowning into the distance. He sees something move in the corner of his vision and sighs. “You’re interrupting my keen creative process, Stump.”

“Note to self, never wish Beckett a good show before he goes on.” Patrick boosts himself up on the ledge next to William. “You have a real band.”

“I have a real band. And Mike Carden.”

“Ha.” Patrick grins. “At least he can play. You weren’t always so lucky.”

“ _We_ weren’t. We weren’t always so lucky.”

Patrick nods and hops down. “No. We weren’t. But we’re pretty fucking lucky now though, huh?”

“You’re lucky.” William hops down as well and leans in, whispering laughter. “I don’t need luck. I’m William Beckett.”  



End file.
